


The Silver Lioness [Book 1/Season 1]

by BananaDew



Series: Game of Dragons [1]
Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Alternate Timeline, Angst, Betrayal, Born of Fire and Earth, Born of Ice and Fire, Dragon Poop - You'll get it, Dragons are a girls children, F/F, F/M, Fanfiction, Flowers need weeded, Freys are DOOMED, GameofThrones is its own warning, Implied/Referenced Rape/Non-con, Jaime is a good father and uncle, Jon Snow is a Targaryen, King Beyond the Wall, King of the North, Lies, Lions are loud and prideful, Lord of Light in Westeros, Love is true, M/M, Magic Revived, Multi, No detailed rape scenes, Polyamorous Character, Polyanderous, Polyandry, Powerful fluff, Prince that was Promised, Queen of Esso, Queen of the South - Freeform, R'hllor Lord of Light, Robert Baratheon hates Targaryens, Sibling Incest, Slow Burn, The Night King, The Night Queen, Third person point of view, Trigger Warning Moments, Tyrion Lannister is a Targaryen, Tywin is a Git, Various Sex Happens - too many sex tags, White Walkers are more than Frozen Zombies, Wolves are a mans best friend, gameofthrones - Freeform, queen of the north, slight AU, tears will fall
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-08-01
Updated: 2021-01-03
Packaged: 2021-03-06 02:41:23
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 5
Words: 17,943
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25656079
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/BananaDew/pseuds/BananaDew
Summary: In the world of A Song of Ice and Fire, the God of Light has decided to reverse time and birth an alternate timeline. With a slight change, a birth of a single character, a ripple effect will shake the way the story was told. Through blood, through love, through loyalty and Roar. Through Fire and Ice this child will remake a world.Hidden mysteries surround Cyra Lannister, the so called true born daughter of Jamie Lannister and a Dornish handmaiden. A babe found swaddled in  red Dornish silk and laying in the jaw bone of a dragon at the siege of Kings Landing.  A child with the Lord of Light's touch, a girl with an unearthly beauty, and a woman with the authority of a queen.As she rises and falls through a world torn apart by power and love, by revenge and coin, can she truly be the Princess who was Promised?Book One follows Season 1. Background lore will be added.A whychoose Game of Thrones fanfiction. All characters, themes, plots, and world building belong to the original creator George R. R. Martin. He was a genius...at killing characters we fell in love with.
Relationships: Catelyn Stark/Ned Stark, Cersei Lannister/Jaime Lannister, Daario Naharis/Daenerys Targaryen, Elia Martell & Lyanna Stark, Elia Martell & Oberyn Martell, Elia Martell/Rhaegar Targaryen, Grey Worm/Missandei/Daenerys Targaryen, Implied Jaime Lannister/Original Character (s), Jon Arryn/Lysa Tully Arryn, Jon Snow & Daenerys Targaryen, Jon Snow & Robb Stark, Jon Snow/Original Female Character(s), Jorah Mormont/Daenerys Targaryen, Khal Drogo/Daenerys Targaryen, Lyanna Stark/Rhaegar Targaryen, Lyanna Stark/Robert Baratheon - Onesided, Lysa Tully Arryn/Petyr Baelish, Minor Joffrey Baratheon/Original Female Character(s), Myrcella Baratheon/Trystane Martell, Oberyn Martell & Willas Tyrell, Oberyn Martell/Ellaria Sand, Original Female Character(s) & Daenerys Targaryen, Original Female Character(s)/Edric Baratheon - Onesided, Renly Baratheon/Loras Tyrell, Robb Stark/Original Female Character(s), Robb Stark/Original Female Character(s)/Jon Snow, Robert "Sweetrobin" Arryn & Tommen Baratheon, Robert Baratheon/Cersei Lannister, Robert Baratheon/various women, Robin Arryn/Bran Stark, Sandor Clegane/Sansa Stark, Shireen Baratheon/Rickon Stark, Theon Greyjoy/Sansa Stark, Tommen Baratheon/Lyanna Mormont, Tommen Baratheon/Margaery Tyrell, Tyrion Lannister & Daenerys Targaryen, Tyrion Lannister/Daenerys Targaryen, Tyrion Lannister/Elia Martell, Tyrion Lannister/Shae, Tyrion Lannister/Various Women and Wine
Series: Game of Dragons [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1860199
Comments: 19
Kudos: 65





	1. Prologue: A Lesson from Childhood - Beating a Bastard

**Author's Note:**

  * For [All Harem Lovers and Game of Thrones Bleeding Hearts](https://archiveofourown.org/gifts?recipient=All+Harem+Lovers+and+Game+of+Thrones+Bleeding+Hearts).



A little girl ran through the training grounds of Kings Landing. Upon her person was a mud-covered cotton shirt, one she had originally put on to practice in not to be bullied. Leather pants made the rest of her outfit pairing with leather boots, though tears had formed in the knees from the scuffle she was fleeing from. Right behind her several boys ranging in ages above and below her chased after.

“Come back little bastard!”

“Wait till my father finds out what you did!”

“Your mother was a Dornish whore!”

The little girl ran in search of help, any help. She hadn’t met to rile those boys, didn’t know she was walking into the lion’s den. All she had wanted to do was practice swordplay with her cousins. She had gotten up extra early just to sneak out in boys clothing and carry the small wooden practice sword she had stolen the day before. 

But her cousins weren’t on the practice field. In fact no one she recognized was. Instead a group of boys had gathered around her. At first they were nice, but then they had realized she was a girl. One of the boys went to push her and she hit him in the face with her wooden practice sword. The other boys rallied to their friend and pushed the girl of six years back and forth trying to get her to fall in the mud. 

At first the little girl had kept her footing despite it all, but then one of the older boys shoved her hard, her small frame falling into the mud as another boy grabbed her hair and pushed her face into it. Her hands let loose the wooden sword to beat and claw against the hands that held her hair like horse reins. Finally she had freed her face enough to turn her head and bite down on the boy’s dirty hand, blood pooling into her mouth before the boy screamed and let her go. All the boys had backed away as the girl got up and spit the blood in her mouth at them. 

When they had called her a filthy urchin, she had retorted that her father was a proud member of the Kingsguard and her mother had been a noble Dornish lady. They laughed at her then, calling her father an oath breaker and her a bastard. The little girl felt tears well up and she picked the wooden sword up again and launched herself at the boys, saying her father was not an oath breaker, he was a noble man! 

But they hadn’t stopped and even picked up their own practice swords. The little girl didn’t know how to actually sword fight, she couldn’t defend herself. The only thing she could do was turn and run back towards her chambers, to a safe haven where those boys couldn’t touch her. 

But they were relentless, like wolves hunting down prey, the pack of them. Her only hope was to stumble upon someone who would help her, but with her face half-covered in mud along with her clothes she looked no different than the commoners roaming the streets. Many of the guards simply watched as she fled the boys behind her. Some snickering or calling out at her, telling her to go back to Flea Bottom where she belonged. 

At last the girl couldn’t run another step, her body collapsing. All she could do was whimper, calling out to the Lord of Light for his protection and strength. Her small body shook in terror as the boys came closer and closer, their jeers filling her head. 

Suddenly shouts could be heard, causing the boys to stop, already having set themselves upon the small scared girl, their feet kicking and several spitting on her as if she were a wayward beast. But the shouts stopped their motions, their faces turning to see several people running to them. Among them were their fathers or older brothers or mothers, those who were their guardians or who they were wards of. 

Behind them others also ran, but what truly caused the boys to stop was the member of the Kingsguard who rode at them mounted at full gallop, his horse capable of trampling them all if he didn’t stop. The moment he did, however, the hot breath of the horse blew on the tallest of the boy’s face. The stench of fresh urine filled the air as liquid trickled down around small feet. 

Dismounting, the Kingsguard removed his helmet to reveal the face of Sir Jaime Lannister, the Queen’s own brother. At this, the guards who had looked on all collapsed to their knees, a realization of just who that little urchin really was dawning on them. 

The boys didn’t know what was happening, but the moment the oldest boy tried to speak, Jaime hit him across the face with the hilt of his sword. Blood and several teeth fell to the already piss stained soil at their feet. 

The oldest boy lay on that disgusting soil, blood pooling in his mouth and his eyes rolled back. The rest of the boys trembled in fear and watched as Sir Jaime scooped up the urchin they had been beating, his right hand wiping the caked mud from her face away. The others who had also been racing towards the group had finally gathered as well, and most frightening of all behind them stood the Queen herself as well her two sons. 

“Bring me the Red Priestess and the Maester,” Jaime ordered, cradling the girl to his armored chest. 

One of the boys suddenly seemed to find some courage, an angry scowl on his face after seeing how his cousin had been treated. After all the filthy little bastard had bit his poor cousin’s sword hand. No doubt ruining his ability to keep up in training. 

“It’s just some bastard of the Kingsguard! Plenty of them in Flea bottom, what does that one matter!”

Jaime went rigid and his eyes sought the guardian of this ridiculous child who spoke up calling his own flesh and blood a bastard. There near the edge of the crowd stood a man who had a sigil of a black sleeping lion on a yellow field glaring at the mouthy boy as if his stare could make the child vanish from sight. 

“I never knew House Grandison had such disdain for House Lannister.” Looking directly now at the knight from House Grandison, Jaime sneered. “What slight has my daughter done your house that these vagabonds you ward would dare raise hand to her? A child who has lost her mother at birth, born true and noble? By the previous King’s own hand my bride was given to me to cloak under my protection yet here my daughter is scorned and named bastard!” 

“Who is a bastard?” Suddenly one of the princes stepped to Jaime’s side, his face fierce, his father’s brooding warrior spirit shining through his dark brown eyes. “You dared to beat my cousin, the Lady Cyra Lannister!”

“Who dared,” the second prince ran forward, his green eyes gleaming like wildfire as he stared with hatred at the boys he had seen before on the practice field. 

“Here me now,” the Queen spoke, her voice hard and her eyes taking in all who stood or kneeled. “Cyra Lannister is a ward of the Queen, her father giving his oath to the Kingsguard. She holds the title of a noble lady as well as a princess and is only under my own royal borne daughters in rank. Anyone caught causing her any harm is committing treason.”

The knight of House Grandison knelt before the queen, his head bowed before looking up at her. “They didn’t know, Your Grace, truly they didn’t know. I beg you forgive them.”

“Does ignorance allow for innocence? They did not know…On the Royal soil, practice yards meant for knights and princes, somehow some strange child managed to tread? Had they been smart innocent boys they would never had behaved like heathens in the first place!”

“I take all blame for these boys, you grace. If there is punishment allow me to accept it on their behalf.”

The boy who had spoken up cried out and ran to the kneeling knight. “U-uncle no! This isn’t right! She’s just the bastard child of the Kingslayer!” The little boy turned and glared at the girl in Jaime’s arms who had begun to stir thanks to his noise. 

Furious the two princes attacked the boy, Edric tackling him to the ground as Joffrey kicked him in the head. Such violence was shocking to see in children who were only age six and five. Their vicious retaliation for their cousin showed how much they held Cyra in their hearts. 

“Children!” Queen Cersei sent guards to pull her sons away and forced them to stand behind her as she stared down at the boy who trembled as he got up, blood trailing from his nose and a cut above his right eye. Turning her eyes to the kneeling knight, she frowned in aggravation. 

“Do you still claim that boy to be ignorant?” Cersei asked, her tone sweet to the ear but sharp in the end with an unforgiving bite.

“Your Grace…Please, he is just a confused boy-“

“Then I shall allow him to continue breathing despite his treasonous tongue.”

“Thank you Your Grace…I shall bare any punishment without complaint!”

“Your name…” The Queen spoke out, her eyes focused on the man kneeling before her.

“Sir Roland, fourth son of Sir Simon of house Grandison, Your Grace” Maester Pycelle, finally having made it by the Queen’s side, spoke. 

“Sir Roland…I shall let all these little children live though they had committed treason. They may be confined for the rest of their stay before they are stripped the right to be Paige boys under anyone unless the King allows. This child, however, spoke treasonous words more than once and slandered my niece and ward of the Queen. You wish to bare the punishment for his continued sins, but I believe you are burdened enough.”

“Th-thank you, Your Grace,” Sir Roland stumbled, his hands coming to hold his nephew close. 

“Of course…Cut the boy’s tongue out but make sure he doesn’t die.” Queen Cersei ordered, finally moving with the Red priestess who had rushed to Jaime’s side to care for Cyra. 

“N-no Your Grace, you said-“

At the sound of Sir Roland’s voice, Cersei spun to glare at him.

“I said you were burdened enough carrying the weight of all of their sins, be it from ignorance or not. His continued treasonous words were more than you should have to bare after his ignorance has been enlightened.”

As the Queen spoke, a gold cloak tore the boy away from his uncle and in front of the boys who beat Cyra as well as the princes, and held the child still as another gold cloak pulled the boy’s tongue out swiftly cutting it off. Warm blood splattered across Cyra’s cheek as her small hazel amber-green eyes opened to the terrific scene. Yet besides the terrifying gore of it, Cyra was not afraid, the Red Priestess was with her and the Lord of Light’s protection filled her veins with a familiar fire. Slowly Cyra’s small bruised but healing hands moved to grip the dragon fang her father had given her which lay strung around her neck, her thanks to the Lord of Light.


	2. Chapter One

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Cyra awakens to a vision and Winterfell is in sight. Lannisters show Family Pride. 
> 
> Starks await the King.
> 
> Targaryens begin to move.

###  **Carriage Ride Warnings**

“No….no Aunt Cersei!”

The creak of the carriage wheel was suddenly the loudest it had been as hazel eyes fluttered open, pale gold thick eyelashes fanning out around eyes curved like a cats. Silken hair to match cascaded down a silver tunic. 

“Aunt Cersei!” A frightened yet strong voice called to the golden queen. Cyra reached out physically wanting to grasp her fraternal aunt’s hand with her right while her left hand brushed her chest where the dragon tooth lay hidden beneath her tunic. She had just woke from a terrible dream about the only woman who had taken it upon herself to be as though she was Cyra’s own mother. 

Green eyes, like summer apples, gazed intently at her across the carriage. Pink-tinted lips curving down as a frown graced Her Majesty’s face. 

Queen Cersei Baratheon stared down at her niece with concern etched into her aging beauty that never seemed to mar her fairy queen appearance. Though many secrets were tangled within this queen’s heart, there is one thing that could never be disputed and that was the love she held for her family. From the children she bore from her own womb, to the twin that came into the world by her side, and of course to his daughter whom she had raised as her own cub. 

“What is it kitten,” Cersei asked in concern, reaching out to take her niece’s trembling hand. 

“The Lord of Light sent me a terrifying vision! You must stay away from nuns of the seven! In my dreams, they committed great sins against you…” Cyra spoke with a haunted voice as her left hand reached out and ran her fingers through the queen’s golden mane. “They cut off all your hair…and made you walk naked from their false temple to the Red Keep…”

Cersei’s frown grew even more so, the maid servant who had previously been her niece’s human pillow began to tremble with fear. Nothing good ever came from the Queen’s ire, and already with them reaching Winterfell soon all knew the Queen would be more agitated. It was no secret the Queen was haunted by the ghost of her husband’s first love. 

“Little kitten are you sure it was not merely a nightmare?” Cersei wanted to know, as Cyra was special, her warnings both blessings and curses and always true in the end. 

Though the Seven held authority and a large gathering within the Seven Kingdoms, during Robert’s Rebellion the church had lost followers as well. Ever since the war began, Robert had befriended a Red Priest named Thoros who had heavily influenced Robert’s idealism of religion. Though The Seven and the Old Gods still held strong footholds, temples had also been built from Drone to Casterly Rock for R’hllor, the Lord of Light. When Cyra was but a small child, Thoros realized the lord spoke to her from the flames and summoned a Red Priestess to be her governess so that a Septon of the Seven couldn’t intervene on the girl’s budding beliefs. 

Since then Cersei had found her niece to know more than she ever should have, and understood that perhaps her fire god may be very real in a sense. Though she still held to it that the Gods, be it the Old or the Seven or even the Fire Lord, need not care for the lives of mortal men. Mercy, kindness, and love were all weaknesses of the flesh. 

“Yes aunty, I’m sure it was Lord R’hllor’s warning of treachery. We must stay away from Septons of the Seven.”

Cyra paid no attention to her trembling maid. She was still gaining the baring’s of her vision. Besides it was not her normal maid servant from the castle. The poor girl had taken ill a week before the journey had even begun from Kings Landing. Cersei had been afraid she would pass the sickness to Cyra and had her removed the moment she was made aware. It was suspicious that her personal maid servant had fallen ill, but with such short notice Cersei could only assign Cyra a different lady to serve. 

This serving girl was a daughter of one of the vassal lords to House Tyrell, a house whom closely followed the Seven. She was also a devout follower and had disliked her lady since the first time she tore the girl from Morning Prayer to stare into the fireplace. Now her lady was trying to corrupt the Queen and turn her into a heathen. Unable to contain herself, the servant suddenly screamed ‘heretic’ at her mistress. Luckily the Red Priestess who governed over not only the beautiful girl but her royal cousin as well moved fast enough to stop the servant from causing any physical harm. Her hands almost burning the maid servant’s wrists with invisible flames as her fingers held them with frightening strength.

Cyra stared with no expression at her daft maid servant. The Lord of Light was the only true lord in her heart. Between her uncle Tyrion and the Red Priest Thoros, Cyra had always been fascinated with the Lord of Light, fire, and dragons. With Kinvara as her governess, her fascination had only been nurtured. It was good that Cyra did not believe in the more violent aspects of some followers of the Lord of Light. She saw him only as a god of love, protection, and strength. 

Cersei was already irritated about being dragged to the North. She didn’t want to go see the glorious Stark home nor feel suppressed by a bloody ghost of a woman who hadn’t even bedded and yet securely seduced her husband. This sudden tart now dared to forget herself and her place, reach out to attach the one she served? 

“Stop the carriage!” The Queen’s voice came out cold like the biting northern winds. She would deal with this ingrate and vent her anger before entering Winterfell. This would allow her a bit of peace of mind. 

The curtain over the window to the carriage brushed aside as Sir Jaime Lannister peered into look from his furious sister’s face to his daughter. “We cannot stop long. The King has ordered us to push on as Winterfell is in sight. What has happened? Cub are you alright?”

Cersei huffed. “Of course she isn’t alright. This servant dared to lay her hands on my darling niece after calling her a heretic! The Tyrells must be daring to send such vassal ladies to court.”

The servant froze, her eyes tearing up as she fell to the carriage floor on her knees. “Forgive me, mi’ lady! My actions have nothing to do with House Tyrell, I spoke out of turn and acted presumptuous. I deserve death, I deserve death!” 

Sir Jaime gritted his teeth and turned to tell the carriage driver to hold a moment. After he motioned for a guard on the other side to open the carriage door and pull the servant out by her hair, throwing her onto the frozen muddy road. The servant lady cried as she scrambled to get up, however a horsewhip came down on her back and she fell again onto the muddy road just as horse hooves crashed down trampling her legs. 

Cersei smirked, bringing a cup of warm wine to her lips as the servant girl screamed once more before a guard dragged her away from the road into the ditch, abandoning her to the elements. Though the little kitten was not cruel, her family who loved her dearly could be. A death of a servant was nothing to them as long as their sur name was not Lannister. 

Suddenly the golden head of her second oldest child came into view; Joffrey Baratheon, Prince of the Seven Kingdoms in all his glory. 

“Cyra, cousin, do you want to come ride into the gates with us?”

“Ride into Winterfell? Can I?” Cyra turned to look at her aunt with a pleading look. 

Already this trip was only halfway finished. Their arrival into Winterfell in mayhap a mere hour away at most and Cyra’s enthusiasm had fallen even lower than what it had been. A month of traveling her excitement had built to see something new, yet with each day North her skin tingled and her body grew anxious. 

The Lord kept sending her visions in her dreams that she couldn’t understand. Direwolves gathering at her sides, one grey one white. Fire burned at her feet slithering around her legs like a serpent and snow coated her hair while across from her stood a proud lion dripping in blood with rose vines wrapped around its throat and a trout withering between its teeth. Above the lion a falcon with a mockingbird hidden in its wings and behind it a wounded stag slipped into a raging storm. Between them all stood twin towers crumbling as kraken tentacles strangled them. Finally, from the darkness that surrounded them all, blue eyes that glowed with death’s light and the sound of cracking ice roared in her ears. 

She didn’t understand the vision, though she understood the symbolism. But whom could she trust and whom should she defend against? Houses and their sigils, friends or foes… A war would come, one she wasn’t sure the side she would fall on. She only hoped to keep her family safe. 

The stress of the Lord’s visions had taken it’s told on the little beauty Cyra was. Her face was pallid more so than normal and she obviously needed to be cheered up. After the horrible behavior from the servant who was supposed to aid her, Cersei would not have the heart to tell her no. 

“Put your riding clothes on first. Joffrey will bring your mount around.” Cersei was smiling finally as Cyra asked Kinvara to find her clothing to which the Priestess complied. Joffrey smirked and left so his cousin could change, the reins to her red battle mare already in hand. 

Though not her brilliant white leather training outfit or her silver lioness plate armor her father had commissioned to match his own, her riding wear was still eye-catching and beautiful upon her person. It consisted of white leather leggings and laced up red dyed leather riding boots followed by a red dyed leather corset that tied over a silver silk long-sleeved top. A red cape with a sewn in silver lioness hung off her shoulders and was belted to her waist with silver clasps allowing it to flare out around her like a skirt when she walked. The inside of the cape was coated in thick warm white fur. A final touch to the outfit was the white leather riding gloves that covered her hands, keeping the cold away with the warm fur that lined the inside. 

No one would ever say this Noble woman was not of House Lannister. If the coloring could not show true, then the very richness of the outfit would scream only those who had the gold could buy. Cyra had been raised to understand this, and though she was not a selfish creature by nature, she was still a woman brought up in a selfish environment. She felt nothing in terms of embarrassment or shame in wearing something so vain because it had been a gift from someone who loved her. 

Cyra changed into her riding formal wear, braiding her long pale gold hair into place, the end resting against the small of her back. Her hazel eyes peered at the curved Dornish sword Joffrey had given her for her 15th name day, her fingers running over it as she decided to leave it behind for now. Instead she only took the daggers Cersei had given her for self-protection, inserting them into the built in sheaths at her right waist belt and left boot.

When this glorious young woman stepped out of the carriage, Lannister hedge-knights flocked closer to be on guard. Though she was simply a noble daughter, she was also the niece of the Queen and as it stands if her uncle does not inherit, the heir to Casterly Rock. These hedge-knights were her distant cousins and family. One day a man could only beg at her feet to call her their lady wife. 

Joffrey gave his cousin a look of approval and helped her to her mount, though she didn’t need his assistance. He knew she was an expert rider, but the polite thing to do would assist her for the lady she was. For a brief moment, the fierce yet snobbish prince appeared to have a sense of humanity only seen when he was around his family.

“Fresh air will do you wonders, cousin,” Joffrey said as Cyra took her mounts’ reins from him. 

She knew her usually temperamental cousin was being sweet to her out of pure kindness rather than the fake politeness he gave others outside his siblings. Very few ever got this golden prince’s gentle care and she was happy to see a true smile on his feline like face. 

“Ah, cousin! I see why the caravan has stopped. Care for a race to the front?”

A lofty voice came to her ears, almost a deep baritone compared to the more alto of the golden green-eyed boy in front of her. 

Turning from Joffrey, Cyra bowed her head respectfully in her oldest cousin’s direction. There on a large black warhorse sat her dashing black knight of a cousin and the crowned prince, Edric Baratheon. He was the oldest of the royal children, though he was younger than herself by a couple months he still treated her as though he was her own older brother. 

“A race? Perhaps after…I would hate to let these Northerners think less of your highness.”

“It’s only a race to the front. We won’t enter the gates at full gallop. Winterfell awaits ahead and father is restless to be in his old friend’s hospitality,” Edric replied, his face full of daring a smile.

Fingers curled around her reins tightly, knowing she was already beat by his occasional silver tongue. Cyra gave both her cousins a cheeky smile before kicking her heels gently into her horses’ sides. The horse began galloping past her personal guard and that of the Queen and royal princes. Joffrey shouting at her that she was unfair to get ahead while Edric laughed and began to pursue her beside his younger brother. 

The sound of their horses behind her caused mischief to enter her eyes. Pulling the reins, Crya directed her galloping mount to cut between members of the royal caravan, slowing her speed down so that she didn’t hurt anyone. The zigzag formation of her horse caused the princes to curse as they had to go around, unable to push their larger horses in the same spaces her smaller mare could slip between. 

By the time the princes caught up to Cyra she was already near the King, her uncle. He looked at her with hooded eyes, his thoughts unclear before his eyes shifted to Edric, a chuckle escaping him. 

“It is as you said, your majesty,” Cyra spoke gently to her royal uncle, “the north is truly refreshing.” 

Robert Baratheon, King of the Seven Kingdoms and Protector of the Realms, first of his name stared down at this Lannister niece of his, his eyes taking in the rosy color of her pallid golden cheeks that spread over her nose and the light puffs of air that came from her excited breathing. They moved to the shine of her hazel eyes that seemed to glow with her emotion in them and the pale golden mane on her head. A beautiful noble lady. Yet somehow when he looked at her a darkness ate him up inside. A hate that didn’t seem logical even for him. 

“Refreshing and fucking cold,” The king replied turning away from the girl he unfairly disliked looking at. 

The two princes encased their cousin who had fallen back a little ways. Cyra always knew to tread careful around this uncle of hers. Unlike her father’s brother, her aunt’s husband seemed to have a distaste for her.  
“Don’t take it to heart, father is a burdened man,” Edric said gently, pulling his horse up beside Cyra’s, his hand lifting to pat her comfortingly on the head. 

“Yes, I’m sure it’s all this cold wind that’s turned him so sour,” Joffrey added, his horse coming to the other side of Cyra’s, his own hand gently stroking her back a moment. 

Looking up, Cyra stared at the castle that has finally come. Winterfell, an amazing Northern Lord’s Keep. It seemed to stare back at her with the promise of winter.

“Āeksios Ōño, aōhos ōñoso īlōn jehikās! Āeksios Ōño, īlōn mīsās! Kesrio syt bantis zōbrie issa se ossȳngnoti lēdys!” (‘Lord of Light, cast your light upon us! Lord of Light, defend us! For the night is dark and full of terrors.’) Cyra whispered to herself in reassurance, her left hand over her heart, fingers feeling for the familiar hardness of the dragon’s tooth that rested there.

###  **The Gathering of Wolves**

The Starks had all gathered together in anticipation of the King’s arrival, having heard they had passed the first gate. Excitement and contempt passed through the Northerners. Many knew Robert from the war, knew him as a great warrior, but others knew of his poor rein as their king. To them, he was now a Southern King and no longer their Northern brother-in-arms. Though Robert would have always been a Southern Lord, his family hall residing in the Storm Lands to the south, he had been brought up in the North, in the Erie of the halls of Arryn. And now this Southern King came to them with banners of Stags and Lions. 

The children of the Stark family all had different thoughts on this coming engagement with the King. The oldest boy thinking nothing more about it than a hindrance, the bastard thinking no more on it than a reason to hide away. However, the oldest girl had a child’s dream in her eyes and rosy thoughts of southern princes and fancy. The younger children thinking nothing much at all. Though a peculiar little girl wondered of the tales she had heard regarding the royal family and most interesting enough she wanted to meet the Kingslayer and the Imp, the Queen’s brothers whom songs were song of. There were even whispers of an amazing female knight who wore Lannister red and silver. 

All had been preparing for a month since word had been sent that the King was making his way to Winterfell. In that time, strange whispers around the north had begun of white walkers and wildlings migrating south. The Stark family had even beheaded a few of the Nights Watch who deserted their posts in fear since the first who came bearing tales of white walkers till his very last breath. And with it all stranger still was a scene the Stark boys and their father came upon. A giant dead stag and even more a direwolf mother rotting in the snow. A direwolf, their house sigil, dead south of the wall. A bad omen, but one that brought the idea of possibilities in the form of six wolf pups. One given to each Stark child – even the bastard. 

Though life had begun hard for the sixteen year old bastard of Winterfell, recently things had changed. He wasn’t sure of why or how, but the change was there. A stirring in his mind, a respect he hadn’t received before from others, a kindness of a mother who had hated him since he was brought to her swaddled in cloth. Still he yearned to leave this place, yearned to run away to the wall and take the black. Could there ever be something to keep him from going? Or was the change he had been show recently due to the promise of his wishes, his future leaving? 

The firstborn, a strong youth of sixteen also felt the changes his brother felt. Though they weren’t close as they could have been, they had grown closer in the last month. They had never been against the other’s existence, but they had been separated by a sense of formality and a mother’s inconstancy. Yet ever since that day when their father let his sword fall and they brought the pups back to Winterfell a shift in the balance they had grown use to fell over all the Stark children.

###  **Meeting Dragons**

Across the sea in Pentos a beautiful woman of almost seventeen seasons stood trembling. Fear like frost almost visible to the eye lay across her pale moon flesh. Violet eyes more lovely than amethyst jewels staring pointedly at the tile floor. Threaded in her long silver-white silken hair rested slightly callused fingers in a tight grip. 

“You are a woman now.”

A hand with fingers to match the ones in her hair seemed to caress the rest of her body slowly in an almost longing manner. The feel of them sent shivers of disgust down her spine, her chest tightening with a sense of sadness and betrayal as the hand cupped one of her breasts before falling away. 

“You must do this for me. For us.”

But if she did this there would never be that “us” he spoke of. They would never hold hands and rest in the ties of their ancestors. His first statement had been truer; she would be sacrificing only for him.  
The fingers in her hair tightened even more, pain prickling her scalp as her eyes looked into identical ones of the man in front of her. 

“Don’t wake the dragon now, Danny,” his voice was almost purring, begging her to do the opposite of what he said. But she knew as he did that her purity had to remain intact. This was his price to pay for his greed, he could never have her as he lusted. 

Not seeing any reaction, the man let out a sigh and let go of her hair, his fingers instead tracing her face in loving caress before he held onto her chin tightly. A cruel smile fell to his lips as he looked at her. 

“Even if he doesn’t accept you as his own…I’d let his entire savage horde fuck you to get the army he is willing to promise.”

Pain shot through her again, betrayal and ridicule filled her stomach with nauseating flutter. The man before her was the only member of her family she still had. A father figure when she had none, a mother when she knew none, and her older brother once upon a time when he seemed to care more about their safety then he does now for a wretched chair in a land she has never seen. 

Her body trembled as he left her there, letting her suffer in silence in her own mind. If he couldn’t have her, then no one needed her. She was only useful as a pawn to get him what belonged to him now. A girl for a kingdom? It was an easy trade, so a sister for seven would be a bargain. 

Yet tears never came to her face, this beautiful young woman who bore house Targaryen from sigil to bone. An exiled princess fallen into disgrace and being sold as a brood mare to a barbarian horse king in return for a prince who played king gaining an army. Instead of tears, her face took a blank look, emotions pressed into a corner. Ignoring the cries of servants around her, she descended into the scalding bath they had prepared, the heat giving her heart a since of home. 

‘Fire cannot hurt a dragon,’ she thought as she closed her eyes and bathed.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> AN//: To anyone who has never read something I've wrote, please know that I love to hear feedback that is both positive and negative. Any time you have something on your mind, feel free to let me know. Some characters may appear to be OOC, but I'm writing them as strictly to their personality as I believe they would be with the single ripple affect of my added character. This may mean more change for some characters than it does for others and later on down the road it may change how alliances, friendships, and enemies are made. I don't plan to stay cannon, but I do plan to make it believable. All is fair in love, war, and The Game of Thrones.


	3. Chapter Two

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Entering Winterfell and the Stark (g)host.
> 
> Whispers on the wind, in the sand, and across the narrow sea.

###  **Beyond the Wall**

Ice hissed and cracked, snow made crisp crunch under foot. What had long lay dormant, tucked away in the forgotten caves filled with ice and bone waking to a new dawn. Summer had roared with life for many years, claiming the hand of power and the throne of kingdoms that be. But the North remembers, and Winter is coming, waking from its long rest with a hunger to reach even the most southern lands. 

Those who chose this place, who called it home and warred with others. The people who knew the true struggles of life and death. Savages, cannibals, traitors and rapists. Warriors, lovers, spear wives and sons or daughters. Tough women and men, creatures of myth and mystery, all trickle by ones, twos, and clans towards their last preceded hope. Banners, sigils, and lords be damned, long live the King beyond the Wall. Let any God who would listen stand by their side as they dared cross the ice wall for Winter is coming with cracking ice whispering in the wind.

###  **Below the Dunes**

In a quiet barely lit room, silk drapes hanging from the ceiling and winding about casting a secure feeling comfort, two bodies sat. They neither looked at one another nor spoke, but in each of their hands rested a letter of intrigue. The older figure clutched a letter in gnarled fingers, a frown laced an aged yet majestic face. The younger leaned back, more relaxed. Slender fingers traced the words inked across the small scrap of paper over and over again. 

“The dragons have become horsemen,” the older figure spoke out in a gruff voice, harsh from the struggle of life and the pleasures of addiction. Slamming the letter down in distaste. 

The younger figure glanced at the older this time, their eyes connecting. A smile was traced on plump whimsical lips. “The lions roar as the stag goes north. Little egg glows in the winter winds.”

Both figures picked up goblets of Dornish Red, the sweet but thick fluid slipping past their tongues and filling their belly with warmth. One day all would know what it was like to inquire the wrath of vipers and snakes.

###  **Across the Seas**

In violet silk, a pale-fleshed princess stands. Violet eyes with the flame that should be inside them cast down. Empty of nothing but smoldering embers like a village left after being set fire to burn to ash. Weak, docile, and completely at the mercy of the stranger who gazed her way. 

Danny felt gooseflesh rise as the Khal stared at her, his form from when she glanced terrifying her more. He was a savage and larger than any man she had laid eyes upon. His body was thick ribbons of muscle and his hair hung in a rich long braid on display for her to see. 

A hand fell on her wrist, her brother’s grip a harsh bite. She wouldn’t know it, but in his eyes burned animosity and jealousy. Perhaps he didn’t even know it himself, that feeling that ate away at his mind and made his body break out in a cold sweat under his silken tunic. Fear. The Dragon was afraid. 

Viserys was more a ball of emotion than his younger sister, terrified of what lay before him, hating he had to hand over the one thing he had absolute power over, absolute control. With Danny by his side, Viserys was king even if he didn’t have a kingdom. He had never had that thought before, not until he saw Khal Drogo sitting atop his black stallion looking every inch the warrior king he was. It was like he was giving away his own lands to the barbarian.  
The grip tightened on Danny’s wrist as her gaze caught the Khal’s, their eyes connecting in a strange dance of fear and suppression. She was afraid, he wanted to suppress that fear. 

“Do you see how long his hair is? When Dothraki are defeated in combat, they cut off their braids so the whole world can see their shame. Khal Drogo has never been defeated. He’s a savage, of course, but one of the finest killers alive.”

Danny trembled, fear tingling through her even stronger now. Viserys leaned closer in a mocking tone, “And you will be his queen.”

Danny was called forward so that the Khal could look at her closely, her feet shuffled and her heart pounded. Viserys let her go, pleased he had gotten under her skin but knowing he needed the brute on a horse to like her. 

The Khal watched as the young woman walked towards him, his eyes tracing over her exotic appearance. He was the greatest of Khals, never lost a battle and never fell from his horse. Many horse lords would have dozens of beautiful women for their tent by now, but he sought after something that was as unique as himself. He wanted the best, though he cared little for bloodlines and titles. The Dothraki only needed the Khal and the Great Stallion.  
The woman who stood before him had the innocence of a girl, pure and frightful. She was clean and held a beauty he had seen only in imitation before. Her silver hair and pale flesh was in stark contrast to his own. Paired with her small-framed body, she was something to behold. Above all else, her eyes were the most beautiful shade of violet that seemed to transform the more he looked into a deeper, richer color. 

He would need to find the best gift for her. With one last look, the Khal drank her into his memory and turned his horse around. His blood riders followed suit as they left their future Khaleesi behind. 

Viserys panicked when the horselord left, afraid Danny had ruined everything. “Where’s he going?” His tone was a bit high pitched with worry. 

Magister Illyrio Mopatis sighed inside, but never let his irritation show. “The ceremony is over.”

Viserys gripped his sword hilt, his eyes wild as he looked to Illyrio. “B-but he didn’t say anything at all, how do we know if he liked her?”

Illyrio stared at Danny’s back in thought, knowing Viserys wanted an answer. “Trust me, your Grace. If Khal Drogo didn’t like her, we would know.”

Danny turned to trail after Illyrio and Viserys, her mind on the horselord. She was frightened by him, though he sparked an interest in the back of her mind. A brute, a barbarian who was to be her husband. All conversation between Illyrio and Viserys was drowned out by her thoughts of the Khal. 

Hadn’t she been meant to be Queen of Westeros beside Viserys? That would never happen if she became a savage’s bride.

###  **Welcome of Winterfell**

The Starks waited in hush, all save one who darted to and fro, a soldier’s cap upon her head. Little Arya was filled with too much curiosity to stand still with the rest. She wanted to see the King, but even more she wanted to see the Kingslayer and the Imp. Jumping onto a cart, she climbed, her eyes peering towards the gates with enthusiasm. 

Her absence did not go unnoticed by her family, her mother practically scolding Sansa for her sister wondering off. The girl’s brothers just gave cheeky smiles, knowing their little sister simply couldn’t be tamed. A wild one, she was, so unlike her elder sister. It was the Stark blood, Ned said when Caitlyn complained. 

Ned stood tall, his eyes overlooking everything. In his mind, he replayed the conversation he and his wife had had that day the raven came. The crushing blow of Jon Arryn’s death, a man who was a father to him and Robert both. A man who committed treason for them, refusing to deliver their heads to Kings Landing all those years ago. The war may have been named Robert’s Rebellion, but it was born from Jon Arryn’s love for his wards. 

Caitlyn Stark was at a loss this day, her mind trying to only focus on the future task of hosting the royal family. It was a daunting one, something she should feel all pressure from. However it wasn’t the most pressing thing on her mind. No, due to Ned’s sudden revelation of what could only have been guilt-inducing agony, Caitlyn Stark had something else weighing down on her mind. Her heart broken again after sixteen years and this time all due to her own selfish misgivings. Would there even be enough time to reconcile, to grow a fondness and show a mother’s love? 

Now was not the time for such thoughts, they would be brushed aside for time in the night when the wind would be the only answer she would hear. Up ahead of them the King’s party entered the gate of Winterfell. 

Soldiers came firth, spilling into the courtyard with banners of lions and stags alike. Gold cloaks, red cloaks, black… Men of the south freezing their neathers off in a land they were unfamiliar. Arya watched them all, her face filled with wonder at the knights. Her mother again asking her whereabouts from her elder sister, though she had no care. 

Then came in a sight that drew Arya in, her eyes tracing that of a man in pristine armor with the helm of a dog’s head. It left her giddy with interest and she found herself rushing back to her family. Ned chuckled, reaching out to grab his youngest daughter, taking the metal cap from her Stark trait main. 

The girl frowned at her father, but moved to fall in line with the rest of her siblings, shoving Bran out of the way after rudely telling him to move. The boy gave his sister a scowl that matched Sansa’s who was doing the same. Robb, Ned’s eldest just gave a light smirk in his father’s direction. 

Sansa’s attention was pulled from her siblings, however, when a gold cloak entered followed by a young man astride a dark horse. Her eyes glanced over him, taking in his dark hair and intense serious eyes. He looked rugged from the travel, facial hair covering his chin and jaw in black like the hair on his head. He looked like a wolf almost, reminding her of Robb and Jon. 

Averting her eyes from him, she found herself next staring at a young woman astride a red Dornish mare. The woman was lovely, beautiful like northern snow. Her crown of flowing silver blonde main appeared well-kept and smooth to touch. It contrasted with the golden flesh of her face, though pale but still holding a natural earthy undertone. She gave off an otherworldly beauty Sansa was not accustomed to in the north. 

A blush touched Sansa’s cheeks and she turned her gaze once again. Yet this time they fell on a youth near her age for sure. Golden mantel and a fresh handsome face, he was like any prince she had thought of in her mind. Her eyes connected with his and she felt herself smile as he smirked her way, her heart pounding a little faster. 

Robb followed the direction of Sansa’s gaze, his eyes landing on the golden prince who no doubt was a Lannister. He saw the smirk on the lad’s face and felt an instant dislike for the boy a few years younger than himself. The boy was full of arrogance, Robb was sure. And unlike Theon, he couldn’t beat it out of a royal child. 

Suddenly a flash of silver separated his view from the prince, a young woman astride a red mare moving as a shield between the frowning Stark heir and the smirking Baratheon prince. Robb’s eyes widened as he took her in, but he couldn’t drink his fill before the soldiers all moved and kneeled. King Robert Baratheon, the man of Robb’s namesake had entered. 

Robert Baratheon climbed down from his horse, his page boys making sure he could get down without fail by bringing him a step. Not something Robert was proud of, however he was thankful for not sprawling out on the ground in front of his old friend and most of the North’s house ambassadors. It would have been a sight to see, the King of the Seven Kingdoms on his back in the mud. 

He moved forward, his head held in regal position. The gold cloaks stayed behind him at a good pace and the carriage that held the rest of his brood and lovely lady wife came to a stop beside his horse. He didn’t wait for her, continuing towards his target. 

With a wave of his hand, Winterfell stood up straight. Robert looked them over, all Ned’s brood bearing Stark expressions and Tully eyes. His friend had done well, protecting this frozen dirt beneath their foot and growing a half dozen little direwolves. Robert almost felt outdone by his friend, only sporting four children of his own. 

However those were only his legitimate children. Robert was well aware of all his bastards running about Flea Bottom. Can’t fuck that many whores and not spawn a bastard or two. Though he spared them no mind nor coin save what he paid their mothers for a night. What was a bastard or two to him anyway? Bloody Stark being noble and taking his in.

He and Ned sized one another up, their faces giving away nothing of their lifelong friendship. 

“Your Grace,” Ned bowed his head.

“You got fat,” Robert growled out in his gruff voice. 

Everyone held their breath, the two lords giving nothing away. Then Ned glanced down at the thick girthy gut that Robert had attempted and failed to hide behind leather armor. He gave Robert a slight eyebrow twitch with a small tilt of his chin. 

Both men broke out in loud robust laughter, their faces for a moment seeming to lose years of stress and sorrow as they clasped one another into a brotherly embrace. 

Breaking apart, Robert enthusiastically called out ‘Cat’ with a fondness one would have for a sister, his meaty arms dragging her in before she knew what was what. When he let go, he ruffled little Ricken’s hair with affection. 

Retuning to Ned, Robert still held a cheeky grin on his bearded face. “Nine years, I have not laid eyes on you!” His voice almost sounded accusing. “Where the hell have you been?”

Ned gave his old friend and king a gentle smile. “Guarding the North for you, Your Grace. Winterfell is yours.”

At the same time, the Queen and her two other children dismounted from the carriage. Cyra and the two princes by her side also got down from their horses. Jamie Lannister pulled his golden helm from his head and moved to stand near his daughter as he watched his sister walk with a queen’s authority towards the Stark family. 

Robert moved to stand in front of Robb, taking his forearm and giving him a good shake. “You must be Robb.”

Robb nodded his head, though he didn’t feel particularly blessed to meet the man of his namesake. He had grown up hearing the stories of a great warrior, yet all he saw before him was a wastrel king. A man grown fat with inner court instability and a heavy banquet of whores and wine. For a moment, Robb envied his half-brother, Jon. At least that man had been named after a powerful leader. 

Robert moved past the boy, a year older than his own oldest. His eyes catching sight of Tully red, a sight to see in the north. “My, what a pretty one you are,” Robert cooed at the girl, though it lacked his natural flirtatious charm. After all, the girl was barely thirteen years and Ned’s babe to boot. Robert may be a many things, but he wasn’t a barbarian. 

Sansa glanced down shyly, her face red from the complement though it was more embarrassment due to who the king was rather than embarrassment to the complement itself. Robert chuckled and leaned down to look at the next child, another girl but lacking that Tully auburn. No this one was all Stark like his Lyanna. 

“What’s your name little wolf?” Robert gazed into the eyes of the girl, momentarily wishing he didn’t have to sew royal lines into further houses. 

“Arya,” The girl mumbled, her eyes flickering around behind the king and catching sight of the Kingslayer and queen. 

“Arya huh,” Robert muttered, glancing Ned’s way before continuing on to another Stark boy. “Well show us your muscles,” Robert said with mirth to the skinny twig of a lad. 

Bran attempted to flex his bicep as he had seen the men do. Robert chuckled and patted his head. “You’ll be a soldier.”

Bran didn’t know what to think of that, his interest in weapons and war play lower than his sister Arya’s. He wanted nothing more than to be free really. To climb anything and see the world, yes, that was a splendid dream. No soldier business for him, Bran was sure. 

Arya couldn’t contain herself anymore, eyes on Jaime Lannister. She pointed him out with a nod of her head to Sansa, saying his name and connections. Yet still she hadn’t seen the Imp or the Silver Lady Knight. 

The Queen had reached the Starks, Cersei stretching out her hand to Ned with a look of disinterest on her face. The Lord of Winterfell hesitated, seeing his sister’s face briefly in place of the Lannister woman before he kissed her knuckles and bowed his head.

“My Queen,” he spoke, his wife echoing him with an even greater bow. 

“Take me to your crypts, I want to pay my respects,” Robert interrupted rudely, his eyes hardened with regret and sorrow. 

Cersei felt her insides burn like touching a hot poker from the fire. Already the ghost of a dead woman was on her husband’s mind, driving him forward. Though at this point in their marriage there was truly no love to be lost between them, Cersei still felt the prick of jealousy brought on by a memory. 

“We’ve been riding for a month, my love, surely the dead can wait,” She tried to reason with her husband. Her eyes reflected the pain and embarrassment he was putting her through at this time. 

Yet Robert would have none of it, least of all from the woman who held a place that hadn’t ever been hers. Giving her a stern look briefly in return before nodding and calling to Ned, Robert walked away from them all. Winterfell wasn’t a place he didn’t know, but he wanted Ned with him in the crypts. They had things to speak on, plans to discuss. 

Cersei couldn’t bare the brush off. It was a blow not only to a small part of her heart but also a dagger to her ego. She was a proud Lannister and though she had married a Stag, she would never see herself as one. The final swing of the emotional blade was when the youngest female Stark inquired where her beastly little brother was.

“Where’s the Imp?” Arya questioned, her child mind not contemplating that of the current atmosphere like the adults and older children could. Sansa snapped at her in return and Cersei spun away on her heel returning to her brother’s side. 

“Where is our brother? Go find that little beast before he makes me look like a fool.” 

A scowl set to Cersei’s lips as she saw the look of disappointment on Cyra’s face at calling the girl’s uncle a beast. Another thing Cersei felt jealous over and hated her monstrous brother more for; his unique bond that was unshakable with Cyra.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> AN// Hope you are enjoying everything so far. Do you like the long chapters? Are they too much? Let me know.


	4. Chapter Three

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A dirty little lecher thinks too deep. Warning Mature Themes Ahead!
> 
> Youthful lads gander a lady.
> 
> A King gets what a King wants. 
> 
> Before I let you go, how about a foreshadow of your future?

###  **Brothels Are the Finest Feast**

#####  _Mature Scenes Ahead_

Tyrion Lannister downed a cup of weak northern ale, downing the swill faster than the whore could between his legs could suck his cock. He let out a pleasurable growl as her tongue wrapped his head then slithered down the shaft to his balls. His hand moved to clasp her hair and drag her up from his nether region to his mouth, kissing her brutally before letting her go, both of them falling back on the bed. The little dress cloth belt she wore exposed pale plump flesh and large breasts leaving nothing to the imagination. She was a well-fed whore, no doubt one of the best for the coin he had dangled before the Mistress of the brothel house. 

“It is true what they say about the northern gals,” Tyrion grinned cheekily, moving to reposition himself on the bed. 

Ros giggled, a well-practiced response, her hands moving to pull of the dwarf’s little boots and trousers. “Did you hear that the King has come to Winterfell?”

Tyrion inwardly sighed. The north was a cold bleak place, one Tyrion really had no love for nor want to be. His only solace was between the legs and in the wet mouths of northern whores. They kept him warm, filled his needs, and most of all kept him from that infuriating woman whom he called queen sister. 

“I did hear something to that,” he responded as his boots dropped to the hay covered cobblestone floor. 

Ros continued, not noticing the tone in Tyrion’s voice, his lack of interest on the subject she was bringing up. “And the Queen too, as well as her twin brother.” She began to pull off the other shoe which landed with a thump that echoed the first. Her hands grasping Tyrion’s trousers. “They say he is the most handsome man in all the seven kingdoms.”

Well perhaps he was lying to himself, the whores weren’t his only solace. This one was surely beginning to agitate him. Perhaps he should have stayed back. He did enjoy the company of his nieces and nephews – well save Joffrey the little prick. 

But to be in their charming company he also had to endure the glower of his sweet sister. Right now he’d rather choke a whore with his cock than deal with her. 

“And what about the other brother,” Tyrion inquired, curious as to what the whore was getting at.

Ros made an innocent face and began to crawl slowly towards Tyrion. “The queen has another brother?” 

Tyrion raised an eyebrow, adjusting himself on the bed comfortably. “There’s the handsome one, and then there’s the clever one.”

Ros put a cheeky look on her face, lips slightly pouted, “I hear they call him the Imp.”

Tyrion held back the urge to shove the woman away. “I hear he hates that name.”

Ros, realizing she needed to tread carefully began to trace her fingers over Tyrion’s chest, leaning in close so that when she spoke, her breath tickled Tyrion’s neck seductively. Her voice took on a breathy silvery cheek. “I heard he’s a drunken dirty little lecher prone to all manner of perversions.” She smiled gently then, caressing Tyrion’s face. “We’ve been awaiting your arrival, milord.”

Tyrion smirked, “Clever little whore aren’t you.” Reaching he lifted his tunic, Ros’ eyes taking in the hard cock ready again between his legs.

“Again already?” Ros was shocked. Her usual customers were little lords of Winterfell and they never rose so quickly after given her attentions. 

“The gods gave me but two gifts, sweet Ros. A clever mind and a sharp prick to wield as often as I want.”

Alas all good things came with a bit of bad. The door to his rented room burst open and there stood his dashing proud lion of a brother. The crème of the Lannister line, a true testament of their father’s legacy. Surely everything Tyrion dare say he was not. A proud warrior, an honorable man, a sister fucker if Tyrion had ever saw one. That was saying something, he was born when Targaryens sat upon the throne after all. 

“Should I explain to you what a closed door at a whorehouse means, dear brother?”

“I’m sure you will have much to teach me,” Jaime said, his eyes only on his brother, the whore ignored. “But our sister craves your attention – not to mention your darling niece.” 

“She has odd cravings, our sister-“ Tyrion was about to say something else in regards to Cyra, but Jaime interrupted. 

“A family trait,” Jaime muttered as he poured a mug of watered down ale and took a swing. “The Starks are feasting us at sundown. Don’t leave me alone with these people, brother. I may break a boy’s nose or two.” 

Tyrion grimaced. No doubt his brother was being an overprotective father again, feeling slighted by Paige boys turning their heads at his darling Cyra. The man would have to learn to let go at some point. Cyra was well past marriage age and beautiful as ever. At some point she would be tied to a man of noble stature. If Cersei had it her way, Tyrion knew his sweet niece would be queen – something he did not oppose. It was her place after all.  
“I have begun to feast a bit early though and this is but the first of many courses,” Tyrion traced his fingers along the swell of Ros’ breasts. 

Jaime placed the mug back and walked towards the door, his feline eyes looking at his brother sideways. “I thought you might say that,” he pulled the door back open and in tumbled several scantily-clad women. “Hurry now, ladies, we’re short on time.”

###  **Northern Lads and Southern Gals**

Cersei gathered her children in a group, her niece Cyra included. Ladies in waiting stood at the ready in case the Queen or royal brood needed anything despite not being in their own element. Gold cloaks moved to man the doors and take stock of all the faces of those around them. They could not follow Robert into the crypts, but they could do their duty making sure Winterfell was secure. 

The hound, Joffrey’s personal guard and dog for all intents and purposes dismounted to stand close to the prince, his eyes sauntering over everyone, his expression cold. The golden haired prince gave it no thought though, giving the eldest Stark daughter flirty looks. He found her intense gawking laughable, and couldn’t help but see how far she might pursue him. He was a vain young man, chockfull of himself and sure of his competence when it came to girls – unless they were Cyra. She was different from other girls, contradictory really from his own siblings even. 

Edric and Joffrey were close when they were younger, however as they grew up they began compete against one another. It didn’t help that Cersei favored Joffrey a bit more over Edric, nor that Robert favored Edric over Joffrey. Then there was Cyra, their striking cousin who didn’t pick one over the other. 

She would hunt with Joffrey in the dungeons, watching him impale mice and cats with crossbow bolts without judgement. In turn she would swordfight with Edric, giving no rest nor dragging her hits. They were just budding youths, not regal family members with the future of seven kingdoms on their shoulders. They could be themselves, no dread of nattering ladies or persistent lords. 

Cyra caught Joffrey flirting with Sansa, a small smile gracing her lips a moment. She gave her cousin a soft look, though in her mind she knew he didn’t mean anything by it. Cyra had never seen a woman actually obtain her cousin’s favor, though many tried. He was simply impossible and much too self-absorbed. Though they butted heads, Cyra wondered if their uncle Tyrion had rubbed off ever the slightest on Joffrey in that regard. Stubborn as mules, the two of them. 

Her eyes moved away from Joffrey to Edric seeing him standing with the Stark heir, their expressions a look of masculine testosterone as they sized each other up. At the Stark heir’s back were two other lads, both charming to look at. Cyra couldn’t help but run her eyes over them, such rugged boys so different from perfumed silk wearing little lordlings in Kings Landing. They gave her an impression of her father – warriors at heart. She liked that, it was something she found appealing in men, though she had never had any real dealings with them. 

Then, before anyone could move, several large dogs came barreling over. They knocked into each and wobbled like young pups. In fact it took Cyra back a moment to realize they indeed were pups, wolf pups though they looked bigger than she assumed probable. 

Cersei called her children to her quickly, her face showing disapproval as Caitlyn lectured her children on keeping their beasts at bay. “Hounds belong in kennels, I trust, Lady Stark,” Queen Cersei spoke out, her eyes on the animals as if they were diseased. 

“Apologies, my Queen,” Caitlyn said, a bow of her head. “Robb, Jon!” 

The boys both threw their hands into the air, calling at the direwolf pups to come to heel. It didn’t work, but all the younger children present got a good chuckle watching. Tommen beamed, his eyes almost dancing with keen interest in the direwolf pups. Forced to leave Sir Pounce at home, he ached for animal companionship. 

Cyra bent down, wanting to pet them, but they refused her. They may be pups running rapid, but they were skittish enough around the foreigners not to run in touching distance. There existed numerous fresh trails in the courtyard, the pups couldn’t help but wriggle out through a smashed hole in the kennels to explore. 

“Cousin,” Edric called to Cyra, his eyes glancing from the Stark lads to her. He didn’t want her mingling until he was sure the lads were harmless. Already the Greyjoy boy had a mouth that left him with a bad impression, not wanting his sister nor cousin to deal with a lecherous youth who wasn’t related to them and would might treat them loutishly. 

Cyra rose up and glimpsed her cousin’s way. She knew he worried, constantly the protective one he was. Like a second version of her father, really, though she would never say such a thing. There was only one Jaime Lannister, after all. No one could ever be his equal or his substitute. 

Caitlyn decided to leave the direwolves to her sons, her mind already on hosting the women of the royal family. Men did as they pleased, and were left to wander. Even Tommen, Caitlyn would have left to her sons. It was simply the way of things after all – Rickon would leave her from time to time even to be among his brothers. 

She didn’t remember a young woman as cousin to the royal brood, but after all it had been nine years since she had truly paid any attention to the gossip of Kings Landing. How to treat the girl wasn’t too hard, she would see to her as she would the Queen’s daughter, though the girl would have to share a room. With the King coming, entourage included, as well as ambassadors from various vassals of Ned, the keep was rather filled to the brim.  
“If you would like, my Queen, please allow me to show you around Winterfell and give you room to rest and refresh yourself.” 

Cersei squared her shoulders and nodded for Caitlyn to show the way. She crooked her head and called out to Mrycella and Tommen before following. Tommen didn’t follow, instead he whined to stay behind with Edric. Lastly the queen called out to her niece, sure the girl would like to give a good smack to a northern lad or two with a practice sword but wanting the girl near. 

Cyra pouted to her aunt, but gave in all the same. With one last lingering glance to the lads of the north, her eyes finally making contact with the dark brooding boy that sent a fire turning in her belly, Cyra took Myrcella’s hand and followed after Lady Stark.

###  **Of Crypts and Kings**

Ned Stark and Robert Baratheon, brothers in arms and but in blood maneuvered their way through the catacombs of the Stark crypts. With just the two of them, they were able to let down their sentry and speak of things they held close to their hearts. 

First and foremost, Ned desired to know about Jon Arryn. It wasn’t like the hand of the king to abruptly die. He had the best maesters by his side after all. Something didn’t sit right, and Ned couldn’t believe Robert would be blind to danger surrounding him. 

“Tell me about Jon Arryn,” Ned spoke out, demanding answers. 

Robert understood Ned’s tone, understood his only true friend’s worry and fret. However there wasn’t much if anything he could really tell. Even the maesters were quiet on what had happened. “One moment Jon was fine, the next it burned right through him, whatever it was. He went in the night – not the kind of death we would have dreamed for him. I’m only thankful it didn’t ride out for days for his sake.” As their footsteps echoed, Robert pushed back the weak feeling that brought tears, having no use for them. “I loved that man.”

“As did I,” Ned said, his fingers clenching into fists. “He was a good man.” 

“He was. Taught us a thing or two in what’s what. Do you remember me at sixteen? All I wanted to do was fuck whores and crack skulls in the tourney.”

Ned gave Robert a sideways glance. “Right.” The man hadn’t changed course, he still fucked whores and felt the urge for battle and blood. 

“Don’t give me that look, Ned. It’s not his fault I didn’t listen.” Robert chuckled, though the sorrow was still there in his eyes over the loss of their adopted father. 

“Never mourned my father, the hard bastard. Never felt the need to. But I mourn Jon, Ned. Mourn him more than I thought I could mourn anyone besides Lyanna.” Robert stopped walking, his feet shifting him to face his old friend. “You’re the only one I call brother, the only one I trust. I need you Ned.”

Ned felt for his brother-in-arms. His heart broke to see what Robert had become. What once had been a fierce war god now was a broken fat man with nothing in his heart when he held all in his hand. 

“Lord Eddard Stark, I would name you Hand of The King.”

Ned bent the knee, hoping Robert would take it back. “I am not worthy of such honor.”

“I’m not trying to honor you, I’m trying to get you to rule my kingdom while I eat, drink, and whore myself into an early grave. We were meant to rule together, you and I. Had Lyanna lived, had she –“ Robert gave a small sob, his shoulders trembling. “We would have been brothers by marriage as we cannot be brothers by blood.” Robert stopped a moment, his eyes hardening as he looked to Ned. 

“But it’s not too late,” Robert spoke, his voice firm as he stared at Ned. There was no backing down, no saying no. In this moment Robert was King Robert Baratheon the First of His Name, King of the Andals, the Rhoynar, and the First Men, Protector of the Realm, and Lord of the Seven Kingdoms. “I have sons, you have daughters, we’ll join our houses.”

Ned was taken aback. He had thought Robert would demand him the Hand only, not proclaim engagements between their children. Marriage between nobles was a serious thing, not to be taken lightly. Power play between the Great Houses all held to whose house their children married into. It solidified alliances, it brokered promises in war time, and it allowed for generations of feuding to come to an end. 

Ned had already built the paths for his children in this regard. He had made a promise to Walder Frey during the battle with Greyjoy for Robb’s hand in marriage. He planned to marry Sansa to Theon, a boy who was his ward and raised by his hand. Years of preparation and thought had come into these marriage proposals and now his King has wiped out the security map of the future Ned had drawn out. 

“Robert...I have only Arya’s hand to give. Sansa has been-“

“Well I’m King, and the King gets what the King bloody well wants! I’ll fix it all with gold and lands and titles if I must, but we will be bound in marriage and our children will lead these bloody kingdoms in the future. Hell, I’ll even save you Walder Frey and give Robb a lady wife. Don’t say I never did something for you.” Robert leered mischievously at Ned, and for a moment Ned believed he saw the old Robert. 

Then the man spun on his heel and moved further into the crypts, not allowing Ned to reject any of the demands Robert had lain before him.

###  **A Bride Before Her Wedding**

Outside of Pentos, the Dothraki horde who hailed under Khal Drogo were gathered. Fires burned though the sun was still high and the sound of drums and Dothraki screams filled the air. A celebration was being held, the marriage of a great Khal and an exiled Targaryen princess. Anyone who sought allegiance or power from the two fractions were present. 

The bride was still inside her room, her body anointed and dressed in finery. It meant nothing, Danny knew. The horse lord was hardly going to appreciate the fine silks Illyero had taken the time to prepare. She was almost positive she could have rolled in a horse dung tarp and the savage would still force her to be his wife. 

Viserys, on the other hand, was elated. Finally everything he ever craved was approaching his grasp. Well perhaps almost everything, but losses had to be made. As for the sacrificial pawn, he couldn’t help but try to keep some form of tether around her sweet neck.

“Daenerys…”

Danny regarded her brother who gestured her closer. Her feet took tentative paces, still recalling the last time he had been alone with her, his threat of rousing the dragon prickling like sewing needles at the back of her mind. 

“Come, come here sweet sister and let me look at you before I offer you over.” Viserys eyes were that of a snake as they watched her step closer and closer, void of warmth. 

Danny retreated half a step back when she saw his eyes, but it was too late. Viserys lunged forward and gripped her by the throat and pushing her down so that he could cower her with height difference. 

“Viserys…please…”Danny begged in a breathy voice, his fingers almost digging into her flesh. He probably would have held her hard enough to bruise if she wasn’t to be married in a matter of moments. 

“Remember, sweet sister, I am the only family you will ever have in this world. For of what you do today, our bloodline will run afoul. Be sure to make the Khal happy, sweet sister. Let’s see you a mother of dragons in the future.” 

Viserys let go of her, leering as her body tumbled to the floor as Illyros arrived in the entryway of the room to get her. The Magister closed his eyes a moment, signaling the slaves behind him with haste to assist the princess. The man knew very well he would have to tread carefully with the Targaryen Prince, the lad was a bit impulsive and could get out of hand quickly. A Dothraki wedding, lest Viserys was prepared to truly wield the sword strapped to his hip, was not a place to get out of hand.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> AN//: Hopefully this story is enjoyable. I'm trying to interweave the story with Cyra's ripple affect. She will have a stronger presence in the story soon, right now all I can do is introduce the characters and set the story.


	5. Chapter Four

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Engagements are brokered. 
> 
> Dark acts are done in the night.
> 
> A marriage cements change in the far land of Essos.

###  **A Daughter’s Future, A Mother’s Pain**

Sansa sat with her mother, thinking of all that had transpired in just a short time since the king’s arrival. The entire of Winterfell was blustering with preparations for a feast and the knowledge that the Lord had been asked to be the new Hand of the King. Though Ned had gave no answer, Caitlyn Stark was well aware her husband would be leaving Winterfell to enter the lion’s den in the south. If there was but something she could do to keep it from happening, she would, and still she would try too to have her husband deny all that Robert has brought to his shoulders. In the end, she knew in her bones it would all be for not.

Worse still, Lady Stark was aware of her husband’s plans for the future, aware that Robert Baratheon was destroying those well-laid plans for his own greed and heartache. Though she would have rather not seen her oldest daughter marry Theon Greyjoy, a whelp of a boy who found comfort in whores and had a foul mouth, she could not disagree with the thoughts of her Lord on the political benefits. She too had married for political profit as was a woman’s way in the world.

Yet Sansa was not the only child she worried for. Ned had long ago promised Robb’s hand to Walder Frey’s kin. It had been the promise of connections to the north and cemented their way across the Green Fork. Though Robert had promised to annual the oath with gold and titles, Walder Frey was not a man to be denied and held all grudges new and old to heart when it suited him. It may seem an acceptable trade, but Lady Stark was sure the willy old fox would throw it in their faces when the moment was right. 

“She’s very beautiful, isn’t she,” Sansa spoke to her mother as Lady Stark worked on her hair. “Lady Cyra, the Queen’s niece.” Sansa stroked some of her free auburn strands that were not yet in her mother’s hands. “I’m sure Robb must think so, how lucky he is.” 

Lady Stark closed her eyes, working her fingers through her daughter’s tangled waves of Tully hair. “She truly is,” her response came quiet and calm as she could. 

“Do you think Joffrey will like me? With a cousin so lovely, do you think he will find me ugly?” Sansa felt worried over it, afraid she wasn’t good enough for the golden prince. 

Lady Stark paused then, her hands stilling in Sansa’s hair. “Sansa…Joffrey is the second prince. Robert wishes to see you a queen.”

She froze, trembling a little. Edric Baratheon. That was the prince she had been betrothed to? “No, no I want to marry Joffrey!” Sansa tangled the hair in her hands in her distress. 

“Your father hasn’t said yes yet, Sansa,” Lady Start tried to calm her daughter. 

Sansa turned to look up at her mother with pleading eyes. “Please, please have father change the groom!” 

Lady Stark sighed and continued to fix her daughter’s hair. She wished she could give her daughter reassurance, wished she could give her comfort in this but it was the world of men. Everything would come to pass as the King and her Lord commanded. 

Queen Cersei Baratheon was livid, beyond words or ways she simply couldn’t calm herself when word of Robert’s meddling had brought her. The wretched north could keep its backwards lordlings to the forest gods they worshipped or the seven they claimed! She would not accept it, would not see it through to watch her niece be married to a Northern beast. Plans, plans in the making for years she had to ensure Cyra would be Joffrey’s bride. It was the only natural choice in her mind that the two be together, they belonged together for they were two halves of a whole, she was sure. With Cyra Joffrey was different than he was when she could not see. 

She calmed his raging lion’s blood and made to think things through without acting out as the haughty prince Cersei knew her son to be. Not that the queen would have her son any other way. He was a lion after all, ferocious and powerful as he should be. With Cyra’s influence he had become more than what others thought of him and could grow into a true king.  
Of course Cersei knew that Edric would be king after Robert passed, but she held no love for her husband’s youthful double. A mother should love all her children, should hold them close to her bosom and insure they received the world which was their right. However Cersei despised Robert with every fiber of her being, hating his whoring and his disloyalty. 

She had tried once, tried to love him. A strapping young man he had been then, powerful and fierce like a lion could be. She had accepted him to herself and hoped love could grow between them. But he was haunted, haunted with the ghost of the only woman he would ever love and fueled with a burning hate for Dragons and all of their branches of strength. He had taken her to wife and brought her under his cloak of protection, but he would forever hold a grudge against her kin. 

Now he was a fat old stag, meaty for the slaughter and tough to chew. There was nothing between them but tittles and ties and the land that holds them. Queen of seven kingdoms and still whispered about in her own castle as her husband bedded down with whores in what was supposed to be their marriage bed. She had grown accustom to his behavior and let it slid over her like water to the skin or wine against the tongue. Bitter wine, but still. She had her children, her brother…her niece. 

Fingers clenched till knuckles turned white as she thought about her little kitten. Soon to be torn from all the little cub knew and held dear left to fend for herself amongst wolves and snow. Aye, the Starks and their words of Winter coming and be damned if it wasn’t for her niece. Cersei pulled a goblet of watered wine to her lips and grimaced as she drank it down, forcing with it the pain of losing a child she loved for Robert’s ghost. 

She had to make the King see reason before word reached Cyra’s ears of her engagement. She had to make him understand his decision was not viable. Robb was already promised to Walder Frey’s kin and Cyra was the heir to Casterly Rock. Jamie had taken the golden cloak as to not be forced to marry, swearing himself to the Kingsguard much to their father’s frustration.

###  **A Father’s Choice, A Son’s Duty**

Jamie Lannister was never one to care of Stags or Wolves. He cared less even about mad Dragons. Sitting in Lord Eddard Stark’s study accompanied by the Lord of Winterfell, the King of the Seven Kingdoms, and two whelps who oddly could pass for cousins however demanded he start caring a little more. This meeting was held rushed and brought about many raging emotions to the surface of the Kingslayer. After all, his daughter’s future was currently in the hands of a whoremonger.

“Come off it Kingslayer,” the King grumbled, creaking the table they sat around with a meaty fist. “She is well past time to marry!”

Jamie tilted his head up ever so slightly, as if turning his nose at the men before him. In truth that was exactly what he was doing. “My daughter is the heir of Casterly Rock. Her right to hand should be that of my, her father’s choosing.” His emerald eyes slid over to the boy in question. “I have no doubt you have raised a fine and virtuous son, Lord Stark, but he isn’t whom I had planned on.”

Eddard Stark took no offense to the tone in which Jamie Lannister used, though it was filled with condescending disdain. He had already promised his oldest child’s hand away to Walder Frey and true he would rather not have that oath breaker’s blood in his line, he wouldn’t allow his distaste for Lord Frey be a reason he himself broke an oath of his own. 

“I have made no agreement to these thoughts of marriage,” ‘Or otherwise duties’, Ned thought to himself. “Robb is promised to a Frey,” Ned turned to stare at Robert pointedly. “An oath I had to swear for his aid in your Rebellion.” 

The King snorted. “Seven Hells, Ned, had Walder been a high lord I would have pledged my own son to one of his daughters. Be it as it may, the fucker who can field an army with his loins alone is vassal to house Tully and therefore not a prince’s equal.” Not that the Robert had room to talk of fielding armies from the bed. Plenty of little bastards ran about with his blood in their veins. 

“And so here we sit, with you giving my girl to a man who is given to another all for the sake of your own.” Jamie crossed his leg over one knee as he looked at Robert. 

“By all, you are a Kingsguard! Married by a mad king you should be lucky to even have a daughter to lay claim to so openly!” Robert bellowed at his brother-in-law. 

“Yet have her, I do.” Jamie stiffened. “We all did what we could to survive a madman. I am thankful what I did allowed me a bit of joy after all was done.” 

“What about Cyra?” Robb spoke up finally, feeling he deserved to say something in a meeting to determine his future. “You will be taking her away from her home, from her family.” He turned to look at the King whom he was named. “Would she have me, being forced to live in the lands of my forefathers away from the south’s warmth and safety?”

“She’ll have who I tell her to have,” Robert grunted out, pulling a tankard of ale to his mouth and drinking heavily. “And I am telling you,” Robert pointed at Jamie Lannister, “Cyra Lannister will become Lady of Stark of Winterfell in the future.” 

Edric Baratheon sat quietly this entire time. He had only come to terms with his own betrothal to Sansa Stark, and though it pained him as he loved another, he knew it was his duty to follow his King and Father’s order. However he had never thought that it would cost him even the physical presence of Cyra. He and his brother had yet to even determine if the North men were safe and savory to be around their sister and cousin. How could he tell her she would never see home again? That they would never spar as they did or hunt mice in the dungeons? To laugh and make merry at dinner parties and festivals?

His eyes traveled to Robb Stark, heir of Winterfell. A rugged boy, he didn’t doubt despite the clean shave and shear he supported. The Tully eyed lad wasn’t as mouthy as his friend nor as quiet as his bastard brother, but still he was a bit rough of tongue and look. If not for the words the youth had just said, Edric would have voiced his own disagreement on a much stronger stance. Now he wasn’t so sure he should try to dissuade his father. 

“Your words,” Edric spoke softly, eyes calculating the conversation as he looked at Robb. “I appreciate your forethought of my cousin. It shows you have conviction and compassion. We will be brothers, should your father allow me to take Sansa into my hearth. As she is under my protection, I could trust my cousin under yours.” 

Jamie smirked, unable to help himself. His nephew’s words had been so politically polite, but the true meaning was much darker underneath. If Robb took Cyra as his own, Jamie knew Edric was promising anything uncouth done to her would be shared with Sansa Stark. If the lad laid a hand or other on his daughter without her consent or acceptance, if he hurt her or let harm come to her his sister would pay the price. 

Robb swallowed. He was not naïve to understand the threat in those civil words, nor was Ned. The Starks were no fools to political niceties despite living in the North. “Should I take Lady Cyra under my cloak-“

“Into your hearth,” Edric interrupted. “Cyra has no love nor loyalty to the Faith of the Seven. She is a faithful follower of the Lord of Light. One of his chosen.” 

Robb wasn’t sure what that meant nor did he understand the Lord of Light, however if a change of words mattered so he could change them still. “Should I take Lady Cyra into my hearth, I shall protect her as I trust you to protect my sister.” 

King Robert gave a pleased grin. While the men had bickered, the grooms in question had come to an understanding. He would have his way, and Freys be damned about it. “I believe it is settled. To lives with wives,” Robert lifted his tankard to his lips only to put it down and curse it being empty. Such a symbolic look at his own marriage. 

Jamie Lannister stood, hand on the hilt of his sword for a moment as though he would cut Robb Stark through rather than see his daughter wed. Then without another word, he turned from the study, the heavy door slamming closed behind him.

Eddard Stark grimaced. “It seems I have no choice,” he rose to his feet, giving his childhood friend a look of exasperation. “By the King’s leave.”

Robert rose slowly to his feet, hand on the table to give him a bit of a push. “I’ll see you at the feast Ned. I have a wife to hide from now and a sully maid to fall in.” 

Robb stared hard at Edric when the king spoke, his jaw set hard and with displeasure should the dark-haired prince be anything like his father. Edric looked upon Robb with the same intense look, placing an open palm on his chest and giving his head a slight shake. On his honor, he was not like his father in the ways of women. 

Both young men had much to contemplate now, both grooms to be with Ladies of powerful ties. Each would admit to the beauty of said ladies, though only one would be truly interested in his bride. The other was less inclined, heart already given away. He could only treat his future bride with care and make sure she wanted for nothing in their time together. 

Jon Snow was a bastard. It was common knowledge, and something he detested with all he was. All his life he had taken grief for his father’s mistake, and still he found himself bewildered on the change in the last month before the King’s visit. Surely he was still Ned Stark’s bastard, which had not changed. But the way he was seen, the way he was treated had changed. Always, all his life he had skulked in the shadows of Winterfell behind his half-brother. It was safest to avoid the Lady Stark that way. 

Oh he trained with Robb, had trained with him since they were Rickon’s age. Yet he had held back, unwilling to beat his father’s True son in fear of what the lad’s mother would do. He followed after the heir and ward of Winterfell like a third wheel, watching them live their lives as the noble lordlings they were while knowing he could never hold his head high as they do. 

All he has ever wanted was the love of his mother and the acknowledgement of his blood. He had cried when he was a boy, curled in his bed in the night wishing to the Old Gods and the Seven that she be returned to him to take him away from the could castle he hide about in. Lady Stark had never loved him, seeing him only of Ned’s transgression against her despite all he had done to appease her. It had taken him until Bran’s age to realize she would never love him. That she would never tuck him in at night as she did Robb and later Sansa. That she would never hold him when he was sad or hurt, never tell him he would be alright. 

His father’s wife good and truly hated him. 

“Uncle please take me,” Jon begged Benjen Stark once more, though his uncle looked none too keen on the prospect of his nephew taking the Black. 

So many were deserting the Wall, with whispers of White Walkers and a Wildling Army on the rise. Benjen needed men to man their stations, to hold their castles and scout out into the far northern chill. He would be happy to have someone of his nephew’s training and skill by his side, but he could not take away Jon’s youth and potential for his need of bodies. The Black would both welcome and test Jon Snow, he could thrive there amongst the other men and no longer feel the ire of Benjen’s sister-in-law. Still he was hesitant, wishing a better life for the young man, a happy one with hearth and home. 

“You don’t understand what you ask, what you give up taking the Black,” Benjen spoke out, patting Jon’s shoulder. “We swear to take no wives, have no heirs, to live our lives only to man the Wall. You can’t choose this now, Jon. You’re too young to realize what you are leaving behind.” 

Jon glared out at the walls of Winterfell. He knew well what he was leaving behind taking the Black. He knew he would take no wife, that he could have no son nor daughter. How could he though? Knowing his last name was Snow. What could he give such a family? He had nothing to offer save his sword and a sword wouldn’t promise his children a better future. He was no lordling, no noble or even a common man with a name and a trade. He had his bastard blood and his sword, he had his life that he could give to insure his brothers and sisters lived peacefully for Winter was coming.

###  **Craster’s Keep**

“Quit ye squalling,” a burly man growled low at the squirming newborn babe in his hand. The infant’s cry rose into the night like the northern wind howls. The whisperings of cracking ice touched Craster’s ear as he put the babe down, cradled in the frozen rot of an ancient tree stump. “The True Gods take you, and be reborn,” Craster spoke to his son before turning his back on the screaming babe. Heavy feet crunch ice and snow as the Wildling man returned to his keep with his wives, hands reaching out for the closest one as he turned to sneer at a crying new mother.

“Wine woman, get me wine ye useless cunt.” His other wife in hand, Craster made his way to a worn out throne-like seat. Settling in, he shoved the woman between his legs and stared down at her. “Well….Warm me up,” a bitter twisted laugh came from his lips as the woman began to trail her hands along his legs messaging the cold away. 

Cold hands moved to life the now quiet infant from the cradle of the trees. Still alive, but slowly fading from the harsh cold of the North, the infant let out no cry of pain or fear within frozen hands. Creaking ice whispered into the babe’s ear, and arm curled tightly around holding the bundle of life to a bare frozen chest. Bare feet walked upon the snow leaving no print behind as the white body of a man vanished into the flurry of Northern winter snow.

###  **Of Horses and Dragons**

Outside the city of Pentos by the blue raging waters of the sea, drums beat and cheers filled the air. Bodies of men and women danced together along the warm sand and before the cliff. Merchants and men of power from Pentos come one at a time to bow before a great Khal and his new bride. A Dothraki wedding cementing the vow of alliance and war.

Danny stared out at the happenings around her, unsure of this strange world she found herself becoming a part of. The Dothraki were violent and unclothe, their culture savage and free. She had been raised within the safety of Illyrio Mopatis, Magister of Pentos for many years and shielded away from such acts that were now displayed before her. 

Beautiful amethyst eyes watched as once again a Pentos Merchant brought a gift before her and her husband. Opening a bejeweled box, she shivered as he pulled from it a mating pair of serpents. Though she flinched back, she could not help but note the serpents paired to her pale looks and the Khal’s golden flesh. It was if she could see her future in the knotted creatures, her body wrapped in the strength of her husband and forced to bend to his will. It frightened her, but there was a sense of fascination of what was to come as well creeping along her spine. 

Viserys Targaryen was displeased. Here he sat on the lower stoops while he watched his sister sit high above all beside the savage Khal. Time and again he watched as riches were placed before her, gifts of silks, jewels, gold. Gifts of value and worthy of a king. He was a King. Everything his sister was given should have fallen into his own hands. She was even served food before him, showing her own value over his to the vast people before them. 

Jealousy and envy crept and curled inside him. Insecurity had given root and would slowly begin to grow to fester in the future. Viserys caught Khal Drogo glance his way before looking away and scowled. 

“When do I meet with the Khal, we must begin planning for the invasion.” Viserys tried to distract himself, turning to speak to Illyrio.

“Khal Drogo has promised you a crown and so you shall have it,” Illyrio replied looking at the impatient Targaryen prince. Once again he could not help but look to the princess now wed to a mighty horse-lord and think of the waste in it. She had so much more potential, he was beginning to come to understand than the man by his side.

“When shall I have it,” Viserys nearly snapped at Illyrio. 

Ever the politician, Illyrio showed nothing on his face of the irritation in his heart at the boy before him. “When the Khal’s omens favor war.”

Viserys rolled his eyes and raised the horn of wine to his lips. “I piss on Dothraki omens. I’ve waited seventeen years to have what is mine.” Gulping down some wine, Viserys turned his eyes back to what was before him, shooting a glare towards his sweet sister. 

The drums continued to beat as Danny watched what would become her people dance and fill themselves with their savage joys. Only a few feet before her, a woman was taken to her knees and mounted by one of her Khal’s warriors. Such open sexual nature held her eyes at the outlandish behavior, unable to look away. Heat trailed along her skin at their sounds and curled in her belly like rich wine. 

A gasp fell from Danny’s lips as another man tore the first out of the woman and happily took his place thrusting into her. Eyes wide, she listened as the woman gave no complaint and simply panted harder. Beside her, the Khal was not oblivious to his little wife’s experiences. He had gazed at her pale flesh long enough in the short time they had been near one another to see the flush in her cheeks and the thump of her blood in her throat from the corner of his eye. 

“Itte oakah!” Khal Drogo called out as the two men began to fight for the right of taking the woman. The violence bringing his own blood to boil and slither through his veins. He wished to test his new Khaleesi, to see what blood and death rose out of her. It was the way of his people and her people now. 

Danny froze as she watched what had been public sex turn into violence. The men held nothing back though they were comrades and part of the same Khalasar. She didn’t understand what was happening before her, to watch what she knew were the same people willingly duel – if what she saw could even be considered a duel. 

Then her heart seemed to stop as one warrior, the second to take the woman, gutted the first and cut off the dying man’s braid. No one attempted to help the dying man, no one seemed to care. Two women swarmed the victor and the wedding party continued leaving her gasp for breath a bit as the smell of cooked meat and salt water mingled together on the air.   
Illyrio clapped and turned back to the prince who stared in shock at the violence. “A Dothraki wedding with less than three deaths is considered a dull affair.”

Unsure what he meant, Viserys simply forced a grin to his lips. Illyrio could already tell the Targaryen prince was not bright enough to understand the savage culture he was counting on to die for him. Then something caught Viserys eye as he watched a man who looked like none of Pentos or Dothraki make his way up the rise Daenerys and Khal Drogo sat, slightly bowing before his little sister and handing her a bundle of old books. He felt his face fall as he watched him, listening to what he said of the books given to Danny. It irked him, feeling she had no need for such knowledge as she was now nothing more than a common horse whore. If anything the books should have been in his hands like everything else his sister had been given. 

Yet the worst was yet to come as Viserys watched Illyrio get up and motion slaves forward with a large chest. He did not know what was inside but his hands clenched together. Already Illyrio had given Daenerys silks and rich fabrics. He had even bought the slaves for Viserys to give as hand maids to teach his sister how to ride, how to speak, and how to whore her way correctly in the Khal’s tent to insure the horse-lord was pleased. 

Daenerys had acquired much wealth, too much wealth already in Viserys eyes that whatever lay within that large chest should have been given to him. Eyes narrow and mouth turned grim he watched with heated envy as the chest was opened to display something that meant everything to his family. 

“Dragon’s eggs, Daenerys. From the Shadow Lands beyond the Shine. The ages have turned them to stone, but they will always be beautiful.” Illyrio spoke, a sense of pride in what he was able to accomplish for the young woman. When he had first come into contact with the eggs, he had thought to give them to Viserys to sell. They cost a great fortune to the right buyer. However he had grown to see how the boy treated his sister, even when she was sacrificing greatly for him. Illyrio hoped the eggs could give the Taragaryen a sense of home among the savage one she was forced into. 

“Thank you, Magister,” Danny replied, her hands holding up one of the dragon’s eggs. One with emerald scales. Her hands held it gently, cradling it in her palm as one might a babe. These were the most amazing of gifts she had received, something she never thought to see in her lifetime. Even if they had turned to stone, she adored them like her own, cherished them as children and felt as though in her hands they pulsed with a strange warmth. 

Khal Drogo could see how pleased his wife was, how happy she felt in that moment and knew it was time. Rising to stand, he slowly walked past her, only a few steps at a pace that didn’t match what his long legs could do. Danny placed the egg gently back into the chest and rose to her feet to follow. Nerves and fear danced along her skin and made her almost sick. 

Hearing her behind him, the Khal seemed to pick up pace where his horse awaited with his own gift for the new Khaleesi. Proud of the fine horse he had found for her, a pale grey filly that matched her own exotic grace, Drogo turned to gaze at the fearful Daenerys who walked at a stiffened gate towards him slowly followed by his horde. He understood her fear, he wasn’t unintelligent in the feelings of a foreigner adjusting to another’s culture and ways. Many times he watched the slaves they took learn their place among his people and accept what was forced upon them. But his Khaleesi was not a slave, she was the moon that shined above them all.

The awe on Danny’s face as she touched the horse given to her seemed to chase away her fear. Fear of what was to come, fear of her brother should she fail and wake the dragon. The horse was breathtaking and held sway over her very being as though with a touch against the velvety fur was the only thing which could ground her. The Dothraki watched on with approval at their Khaleesi’s trance, praising their Khal’s choice as he lifted her onto the saddle. 

Danny looked perplexed on what to do, having ridden very little in her life if really at all. Her eyes sought out aid in Sir Jorah Mormont, the man who swore himself to her father and gave her a great gift of history and lore from her homeland. She didn’t know what drew her to look to him over anyone else, but as she gazed into his dark blue-grey eyes she felt she could trust in him. 

Jorah Mormont stared at the Khaleesi briefly before turning his eyes to the horse. “Hold the reigns firmly in your hands, Khaleesi, use your legs to help you push the horse in the direction you wish to go as well as tugging the reigns. Pull back on the reigns if you want the horse to stop, lean forward and squeeze both knees if you wish to gallop.” 

Danny turned back to the horse, her hands on the reigns. “Sir Jorah, how do I say thank-you in Dothraki?” 

“There is no word for thank-you in Dothraki, Khaleesi.” Jorah watched as Danny’s face fell a little at that, though he couldn’t be sure of what she was thinking. 

Khal Drogo watched the interaction between his Khaleesi and the Andal man, though he remained as stern-faced as ever. He knew they spoke in the common tongue of their people and part of him hated that fact. He felt a twinge of unease when he watched the man look at his moon, as though he did not trust what could come of such a look should it ever deepen to something more. Whatever the man and his bride spoke of, he watched as her shoulders slumped a bit. The grey filly nickered and bobbed its head and then he watched as it beat the sand with one hoof moving to take a step forward. 

Danny was saddened that the term of thank-you was unknown to the Dothraki. It wasn’t that they were savage, though they were, but that she mourned the loss for them in perhaps never knowing what it meant to be thanked or to be thankful. There were many things Daenerys was thankful for. Her life, the gifts given to her, the kindness she hoped would last. 

Knees pressed into the filly’s side, and Daenerys gave a mock shout as the horse jumped into gallop, pulling her quickly across the beach sands. Her laughter rang out for all to hear as wind whipped by her, silver hair and dress billowing with it. ‘He has given me the wind,’ she thought as she turned the reigns back, meeting the Dothraki Khal halfway as he galloped towards her on his own black stallion.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N:: I know, been a long while right? Truth is it is rather hard for me to write lately. I don't know what brought on the inspiration, but I am pretty thankful for it. With six kids, holidays, and funerals plus a pandemic life hasn't been the easiest. I am never able to force a written chapter or push out something I don't feel is the best. I can't maintain a writing schedule because of this nor can I promise timely updates for readers who are waiting for the next chapter. 
> 
> All I can do is say thank you to every reader, to every one willing to bookmark my works and read them from time to time until they are finished and perhaps at that time read them again. For any reader, I have a heartful thanks for your consideration and interest in what I try to give an interesting spin on things. 
> 
> Thank you! Please comment if you have any thoughts or feelings. Criticism is fine.


End file.
